


Red Hood and Arsenal Take on The Whole Damn USA

by shieldings



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Fluff and Crack, Gen, I'm Sorry, Road Trips, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake is Suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieldings/pseuds/shieldings
Summary: Jason Todd and Roy Harper are on a rampage.  They're very frustrated.  They used a prosthetic arm as a weapon and ate a pound of gummy bears, because nobody was there to stop them.  They have their reasons, but either way, they've damaged a lot of property and nobody is pleased with the situation.Somebody has to stop them before they either burn down the whole country or die.There's only one solution: send in the replacements.





	1. Tim Gets a Headache, Dick Reads Tabloids

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I've been writing kinda heavy stuff lately and I figured that something silly would be a nice change of pace.
> 
> This takes place in the YJ verse, after the second season (maybe like a year or so). Jason is officially un-killed, and as always he is Up to No Good.
> 
> This is my first time writing Tim, so I apologize for any screw ups. Tell me if something feels off, I'll do my best to fix it.
> 
> Might be a little bit of trouble with both Roys, but I'll figure something out. I'm intrepid

“It was like a tornado,” the man said.  “It was like a tornado that wanted beef jerky.”

 

Tim did his best to nod sympathetically, but to be honest, he had no idea what a jerky-eating tornado would look like (“Impulse,” whispered a voice in the back of his head).

 

“Thanks,” Nightwing said.  He smiled and adjusted the shock blanket wrapped around the man’s shoulders before going to check the damage done to the rest of the convenience store.

 

 “Why are we here?” Tim whispered as soon as the shopkeeper was out of earshot.  “This doesn’t really seem like our kind of crime.”

 

“A crime’s a crime,” Nightwing shrugged.  “Anyway, B said it was important and that we should investigate.”  He picked up a gossip magazine and idly thumbed through the pages, getting no investigating done whatsoever.

 

The convenience store was attached to a gas station along the turnpike; it wasn’t anywhere near Gotham, Bludhaven, or Happy Harbor.  It was completely out of Tim’s jurisdiction, and there really wasn’t anything he could _do._   The place had already been robbed, and the criminals responsible were long gone.  He sighed and decided to interview the shopkeeper again.

 

“Describe the robbers again,” he said.  “Please,” he added.  He didn’t want to sound as snappish as he felt.

 

“There were two of them,” the man said.  “Uh, they were in their early twenties, I think.  Or, maybe mid-twenties?  Now that I think about it, they could have been— “

 

“What did they look like?”

 

“Well, they looked pretty different from each other.”

 

“Describe the taller one first, then.”  Tim crossed his arms, and then he uncrossed them.  He wasn’t as scary as Bruce, but he knew the mask was intimidating.  Robin was a big deal.  A scared shopkeeper was worse than an indecisive one.  Probably.

 

“Uh, dark hair.  He was about 6’1, I think.  Maybe a little taller?  Or— “

 

“What was he wearing?”  Tim took a deep breath and tried to fight off the throbbing headache that was creeping up on him.

 

“Sunglasses, a leather jacket, cargo shorts, and crocs.  I remember, I remember saying when he first came in, ‘Kid! It’s too hot for leather!’ and he gave me the nastiest look with his eyebrows— “

 

“Okay, great.”  It would be pretty easy to spot somebody dressed so strangely.  Maybe Tim did have a chance of catching the crooks after all.  “What about the other one?”

 

“Ginger, hit me with his prosthetic arm.”  The shopkeeper rubbed his shoulder, as if remembering the attack.   “Uh, I think there might be footage.  On the security camera.”

 

Why hadn’t he told them before?  They could have had the tape and been out of there!  Tim forced a smile and thanked him for his help.  He then took the tape and ran like hell.  He would return it later, but his head hurt and he really needed out of that damn store.  Nightwing looked up from his magazine, and stood frozen for a second before patting the shopkeeper on the shoulder (probably apologizing for Robin’s behavior) and chasing after him.

 

It was really lucky that Dick had a VHS player in his car.  _Why_ he had a VHS player in his car was a mystery, but Tim had learned long ago that asking questions about Dick’s life choices would only lead to more confusion.  Anyway, Dick was surprisingly pulled together despite all the chaos he surrounded himself with, and Tim couldn’t help but admire how upbeat he managed to be about it.

 

They plugged it into the cigar lighter socket and hooked it up to Tim’s tiny arm-mounted computer, since there wasn’t anywhere to plug in the expensive-looking TV in the trunk.  Once again, Tim didn’t ask.  He didn’t want to know.  The footage was grainy, and there was no sound.  They both leaned in close, nearly bumping heads with each other.

 

Tim fast-forwarded through several hours of bland footage.  A woman with a small dog in her purse became very upset over something in the camera’s blind spot, a heavily-tattooed trucker bought an issue of the gossip magazine Dick had been reading, and a haggard-looking man with three small children bought a pack of cigarettes and a bag of Milky Way bars.  After they’d been through most of the day, the robbers appeared.

 

Dick started, and accidentally knocked Tim into the steering wheel before he could get a good look at the scene.  The horn blared, and they struggled to regain their balance.  Tim finally managed to get upright, and slammed his computer shut with his right hand.  His head was pounding.

 

 “What was that?” he asked. 

 

“That was why Bruce sent us,” Dick said.  “That was Jason.”


	2. Roy vs the Code of Hammurabi

If you asked Roy, he’d say it all started when they wouldn’t let him into the Wendy’s.  All he’d wanted was a fucking hamburger, but _no_.  Apparently, he was “heavily armed” and “belligerent” and “scaring the other customers.”

 

“I’m not gonna shoot anyone!” he said.  “I’ll even order it to-go, if that’s the problem.”

 

“Do you have an open-carry license?” asked the cashier, slowly reaching for the emergency phone.

 

“Yeah,” Roy lied.

 

“Show it, please.”

 

“I want a Son of Baconator.”

“Sir, if you don’t show me your license, I’ll have to call the police.”  The cashier’s hand was _way_ too close to the emergency phone for comfort.  Roy had to think fast.

 

“I want to speak to the manager!” he said, slamming his fist on the counter.  The man standing behind him in line took a couple of steps backwards.

 

The manager was a tiny woman in her late sixties.  She teetered in, took one look at Roy, and called the cops.  The man standing behind Roy in line shrugged his shoulders and left the restaurant.

 

“I’m not going to shoot anyone,” Roy repeated, a little uncertainly.  “I want a Son of Baconator.”

 

That was how Roy learned that it was hard to have a personal life when your arm was made out of guns.  It was also how Roy got his arm confiscated.  To top it all off, it was also how Roy got arrested.

\--

If you asked Jason, it all started when he tried to take a vacation.  It wasn’t going to be anything fancy, he’d told himself.  He’d just take a break from crime-supervising and gun-shooting and general vigilante-ing.  He’d skip town for a week or so, maybe go to the beach, try a new hobby, whatever.  Jason just wanted a break.  He wanted to spend a few days without being chased by cops or harassed by Bruce and his band of merry men.

 

He’d planned everything perfectly.  He wasn’t bringing anything with him that could identify him as the Red Hood, he had his fake identity (Todd Jason Peters!) and his fake identity paraphernalia (cell phone, debit card, cheese-of-the-month club) packed neatly in his classy grown-man-backpack.  He was even using his spare motorcycle, the nearly-broken one.  It was almost as old as he was, and had never been involved in any crimes.  There was absolutely no way that he could get in trouble.  Jason was going to have a good week.

 

Here’s the thing about old motorcycles: they break, on the side of the highway, in 85-degree weather.

 

Here’s another thing about old motorcycles: you need to renew their registration.  If you call a towing service, on the side of the highway, in 85-degree weather, sometimes the towing company asks questions with no right answers.

 

Here’s the thing about old, unregistered, stranded motorcycles: in some counties, they can get you arrested.

 

That was how Todd Jason Peters, upstanding citizen, wound up in the back of a police car, next to some kid who had his single arm cuffed to his belt.

 

“You look familiar,” said the Some Kid.  “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

 

“No,” Jason answered.

 

“You sure?” the kid squinted at him.  “You look just like—shit.”  The kid clammed up.

 

“You look like shit,” Jason said.

 

“Shut up,” said the cop in the driver’s seat.

 

They sat silently together for a while.  Jason wondered where they’d taken his bike; it was his backup, after all.  It was also the only bike he owned that he _hadn’t_ used in some kind of criminal activity.  Now he’d have to find another one.  Fuck, what if Todd Peters got a mark on his record?  Would he have to come up with another fake identity?  Jason wasn’t great at coming up with names.  Shit.

 

“What’d you do?”  the kid asked.  Wait, was he a kid?  He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years younger than Jason.

 

“Invalid registration,” Jason said.  “You?”

 

“Accidentally held up a Wendy’s.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“They took my arm.”  The kid waved his stump.

 

“That’s pretty harsh.”  It also sounded really familiar.

 

“They didn’t cut it off, dumbass.  They took my fake arm.”

 

Jason snapped his fingers.  “Hammurabi’s Code.”

 

“What?”  The kid glared at him.

 

“In ancient Mesopotamia.  They were always cutting off people’s hands for various reasons.”

 

“Pretty harsh.”

 

“Yep.”

 

Jason would have tried to keep the conversation going, but he had a lot of other things on his mind.  He really didn’t want to buy another motorcycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAMRTGv82Zo  
> (no one's ever heard of our band)

**Author's Note:**

> The Boys are Back in Town
> 
> Send Them Out


End file.
